


Daddy Issues

by xogillete



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xogillete/pseuds/xogillete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles takes pride in being there for his boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

An ecstatic Toki hops from stand to stand, admiring prizes and carnival games he'd never heard of until he came to the states. Charles follows slowly behind him, carrying his plush winnings and several gaudy souvenirs. Toki had pestered the rest of the boys to come, but the remaining members had decided otherwise last minute. Typical, the manager thought to himself, always making promises they could never keep. It seemed unfair (and not to mention sad) to just send the boy out on his own, so Charles tagged along, to keep watch. Toki could be quite the handful and, even without the rest of the band there, could get into loads of trouble in a short amount of time. He would attend for business purposes, for legal reasons. Truth be told he would be, as silly as it sounded, his babysitter.

He pulls from his thoughts when he bumps into Toki suddenly, who's stopped walking for some reason. The boy's blue eyes are wide, his mouth agape in awe of something in front of him. Charles turns his head to get a good look, and lets out a deep sigh.

Another game booth, but this one is obviously a bit trickier than the others. Charles can tell by the size of the prizes and the number of people dishing out their cash to try again. Within the striped tent are hundreds of glass bottles, a few of them with bronze rings around them. The smaller prizes were several stuffed dogs of all colors. In the very center is a red bottle, with the sign _“RING ME AND WIN JACKPOT”_ taped to the middle. The jackpot prize hung in the center as well; an enormous kitten plush, with a calico pattern and a red ribbon tied around its neck. Toki had fallen in love instantly.

"Ah, Toki,” Charles began softly, “it's getting rather late, and we... _did_ promise to be back in time for practice. I–“

“I ain'ts goins nowheres tills I wins that cat!”

“Toki you've already won so many–“

“LETS ME HAVE ONE BUCKETS OF RINGS, PLEASE!”

“...alright then.” Charles muttered softly to himself.

Toki would ignore his pleas, regardless of what was waiting at home, not because he was misbehaving, but because he'd been determined. When Toki wanted something, he'd stop at nothing to get it. That was all there was to him. Oblivious, innocent, and sometimes, a bit childish. It wasn't his fault, though. He never got the chance to act like one in his younger years, so of course when he had gotten famous, it was the first thing he truly wished to experience. Charles would pester him, remind him of the time, but all the while, cheer him on, assuring him that the next ring would be the winning toss.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“I look schtupid.”

“Well William, part of the sport involves–“

“Scho fucking schtupid.”

“–using the proper protective clothing and ah, I have to ensure that you're not hurt in any way while we practice.”

“...doesch it _have_ to be white, though?”

“It's traditional, yes.”

“But itsch not fair! You're not wearing any schtupid gear!”

Charles smirks, well aware he'd bring it up. “Well I'd...like to think I'm quite the fencer, and ah, having so much experience, see little need in wearing the uniform. Besides I, ah...I think you look quite distinguished in the ensemble.”

Murderface sighs in defeat, his shoulders slumped as he glares at the blue mat beneath them. As he braces himself, he notices that Charles is deciding on a blade. Amidst his choosing, he catches himself muttering. _"I'd be good too if I were a robot programmed to_ _–“_

Charles dashes his way toward him in what feels like a second, throwing a precise jab in his direction. The blade is less than an inch from the bassist's face, who's gasp is heard even behind the protective mask. He doesn't miss a beat. “What was that, William?”

Murderface swallows hard. Even with the proper safety gear, he was terrified. Charles could probably slice him in half if he really wanted to. The mere thought alone brings a feeling of fear in him, but at the same time, an equal amount of respect. He thinks of a few suck up phrases, but they get stuck in his throat. Charles isn't fucking around anymore.

Then again, he never was.

“I schaid...uh...can't wait to schee what we do first, teach!”

He can throw tantrums and pretend to be uninterested all he wants, but Charles knows he's eager to learn. He makes a note of it not to seem too anxious to teach. That doesn't stop the pride in his voice, the grin on his lips. “Right then. First thing's first, your stance...”


	3. Chapter 3

It's the same thing every few weeks: he gets drunk, suggests a movie, and drags him into his room to watch it together. Charles had declined the first few offers, but later seeing how offended and hurt Pickles got each time, he gave in. Pickles could be incredibly destructive when he was moody, and Charles did his best to make sure his band was always content, especially his drummer. Drinking problems and mental health issues aside, Charles liked to think he was the most mature of the four, taking an interest in the band's business concerns and occasional sponsors. In interviews, Pickles was the only member who wasn't given a written speech beforehand, mainly because he'd been trusted to speak freely without hurting their image. He was calm, kind, and very easy to talk to. Charles practically considered him a colleague, and felt as though he owed him for it. A movie every now and again wouldn't take up too much of his busy schedule. Besides, he was in good company.

They'd lay in his bed, backs against the headboard for support, only a few inches away from each other. Charles would clutch his fingers over his stomach, and Pickles would just leave them at his side. It was always Pickles' choice, so every once in a while he'd explain a character's back story, or why he loved the upcoming scene. Charles could feel the drummer's eyes dart toward him sometimes, to see how he'd react to a specific part of the movie. He'd smile or laugh accordingly, and that was enough to get Pickles to do the same tenfold. Charles would ask questions throughout, not entirely interested in the film, but more or less fond of how passionate Pickles got when it came to movies.

Tonight's particular movie was a bit different. Pickles was an action fan, like the rest of the boys, and would decide on superhero films or the occasional zombie flick. Tonight, Pickles had chosen 'Field of Dreams', a late 1980's film about a farmer and his visions. It's not too cheesy, but there are a few scenes where Pickles mouths the lines. A few times, Charles catches him tearing up. It's then when he realizes that Pickles hasn't had much to drink at all.

When the credits roll, Pickles usually springs up, thanks him and makes his leave. Charles would remind him of upcoming events on his way out and head back to his office. This time, they're both silent and still in their places. They stay like that for a while, and Charles hopes to break the silence with a compliment on the movie, but Pickles beats him to it.

“Thanks for doin' this with me, Charlie. Means a lot to me.”

Charles doesn't expect gratitude, from any of them, really. So when he does hear it, it's hard for him to reply. “Oh. Well, there's ah...no need to thank me, Pickles. It ah, means a lot to me, too.”

His green eyes haven't left the screen. “Yeah?”

Actually, he isn't sure, but he's all talk and no time. “Of course.”

Pickles turns to look at him, his expression softened to that of a child who'd been put in time out. Guilty, but incredibly sorry. Charles brows raise in concern. He's never this way at the end of these things.

He turns away suddenly, forcing a smile. “Ya know...when I was 'bout 8 or 9, my dad use to take Seth upstairs in his room every Sunday night. Use to think he was hittin' 'im. Dad still use to get mad at Seth sometimes, 'cause every now 'n then he'd...he'd do somethin' stupid in broad daylight. Anyway, it just bothered da shit outta me. I needed to know what in hell dey were doin'.”

Charles is bad enough with accepting appreciation. It's even more challenging when they're opening up to him. He'd been shown tiny scars from the rest of them before, but here was Pickles, opening up an entire wound. He's dumbfounded, speechless.

“Every Sunday night...” he continued in the softest voice, “I use to get curious, ya know? I mean c'mahn, I was just a kid. My mom would never let me follow 'em, though. Said Seth had to take care of big boy stuff.”

The older man is still unsure of what to do in this situation, so he nods, glancing nervously around the room.

“One day, when my mom passed out, I went upstairs to see for myself, and ya know what dey were doin'?”

Charles speaks so quietly it's almost inaudible. "What?"

”Dis."

“...this?”

Pickles shrugs, fiddling with the TV remote, pressing the menu button and flipping through scenes. “Dey were watchin' movies.” His voice is hollow, his eyes lidded and empty. “Had a movie night, Seth 'n my dad. I wasn't allowed to come, 'cause I was bad.”

It's a slap in the face. Charles pats him on the shoulder awkwardly in hopes of consoling him. It's infuriating, disgusting even, to him, but he knows it must've been heartbreaking for Pickles.

Pickles seems to accept his comfort. He raises his own hand to place over Charles', and for a second, the contact is enough to put it all behind him. Pickles tears from the questionable setting and leaps off his bed, his usual grin on his face. “Well, chief, hate to keep ya away from work,” he says, saluting him. “I know yer a busy guy 'n all. Thanks again!”

Charles nods, clearing his throat as he made his way off the mattress. It's clear he doesn't wish to drag this on any further, and he doesn't blame him. “Yes ah, well then, it's been fun, but you're right I ah, have some business to tend to, some people to call.” He takes a few steps toward the door way and pauses, lingering, hesitant. He's never been good at this. “And ah, Pickles...if you...well, I mean I...”

Pickles is surprised he hasn't left yet. He smirks, hopeful. “Yeah?”

He wants to reassure him that he's not a bad person, just a little unlucky, that's all. He wants to tell him how talented he truly is, and what a pleasure it is to work with him, but it's all so foreign, so hard to put in words. “I've got a conference with Gretsch soon and they want you to sponsor one of their drum kits, so if you could ah, prepare for that, I'd really appreciate it.”

“Sure thing, chief. Night.”

The guilt's too much to swallow. Charles loosens his tie a bit as he shuts the door behind him. “Alright then. Good night, Pickles.”

* * *

Not even twenty minutes had passed and he finds himself at the drummer's doorway again. He knocks only once before the doors whisk open. Pickles stands in just his usual black jeans, a bottle of vodka in his left hand, and it makes Charles wonder if he'd been waiting there the whole time. 

His eyes are red, but his voice is firm. "Need somethin'?"

"Actually Pickles it's ah...come to my attention that I've got a lot of..." He tries to think up some excuse, but nothing. He'll have to bullshit his way through it. "...events, to plan soon and well, I'm ah, not entirely sure what days I'll be available for all of you, so..."

"I'm listenin'."

"I don't know if I'll have time to catch up with you as often," he lied, "so if you'd...like to take advantage of the current free time and...watch another movie, maybe, that would be perfectly fine with me."

Pickles perks up in an instant. He knows. They both do. He moves aside and welcomes him in. "Come on in, dude, I got Shaun of The Dead playin'!"

Charles smiles, taking off his blazer and draping it over his arm. He knows the movie well, but can't help himself. "Shaun of The Dead, huh? Is that the ah, one with the two tricky sisters?"  
  
"No no no, dat's Zombieland! Ya see, in Shaun of The Dead, dere's dis guy..."

 

 


End file.
